When we set broken bones and carve out cancers and suture wounds and alleviate pain, we are playing God in the best possible way. We are agreeing with God that while disease may be the present state in which we find the world, it is not the way it’s supposed to be, and often it’s not the way it has to be, and we do whatever we can to make it right.

Having malaria in Togo, and pneumonia this weekend, helps me remember that the power that raised Jesus from the dead on Sunday morning was the same power at work in his life on Friday night. On Sunday, the power gave him strength to rise. On Friday, the power gave him strength to surrender.

Just like that, as I stood there watching, the man’s soul left his body. He was still sitting up in bed, his eyes closed, his head wrapped in gauze. He looked like he was sleeping, and his body was still warm. But he was dead. He was gone.

"Sista, are you sure you're strong enough for Africa?" the woman sitting on the bench next to me asked. I silently shrugged. I had been in Togo for less than an hour, and already I was having serious doubts.